This is from the time when I still lived in Bristol. I’ve been back in Estonia baking and working and training and chopping wood for almost two weeks now. Somehow I haven’t been able to write it down yet, although the plan has been sitting in the back of my head for a while. It’s time now.
Early morning. 5:50 as the mobile phone confirmed later. Time when I usually still live a secret life in the dreamland. But my bladder usually has other ideas and therefore I often wake up in the middle of the night and cannot fall asleep again unless I go to the toilet. So, I got up, groped in the dark for my purple Bath Spa hoodie and striped shorts. I don’t sleep naked but my spotted night gown is not meant for the eyes of strangers. It’s too short for late walks anyway. Of course, the clothes were easy to locate as I’d put them waiting on the wooden chair. I know myself and my body’s habits well enough. For a moment I even thought that I may not even need all these extra clothes but put them on just in case. Glad, I did. The toilet was in the corridor of the sahred house and we shared this with one neighbour, an old guy from Ukraine. Other rooms had ensuite facilities. I unlocked the door and stepped into the carpeted hallway (never understood the carpet obsession of England) and simultaneously another door opened. In the back of the house, in the entrance of the back garden, an almost naked man stood. He was wearing swimming trunks. The same that usually hung in the toilet, probably, as they were not there when I entered. He said ‘Hi’ and I answered. But this was weird. Aren’t people supposed to sleep?
Later I heard that our Ukrainian neighbour had the habit of going out early, doing some exercises and pouring a bucket of cold water on himself. Interesting. The whole house was interesting, really. A 50-year-old Polish guy who knows nothing about computers but has a very big DVD collection. He actually had too much things altogetehr and his stuff was lying around all over the house. Literally. But he talked a lot. Mostly he was asking about my novel and comparing me to Hemingway and Rowling. Hah. His English was not good. Oh, and let’s not forget the British guy who believed he had a wife in Nigeria and kept sending her money (although they’ve never met). And the mysterious guy who basically didn’t live there. And the marijuana couple. And the new Polish guy who mostly hid in his room and went cooking in our common kitchen at 2am. Weird house. Must write about them one day. Now back to work and product descriptions. Monitors and projectors, here I come.